It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. The streets were full of colour. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. gutenberg.
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